Memoirs of a non steed: The annoying years
by SarahBelle
Summary: If Shadowfax could write, there is some small point of probability that his diary would have looked something like this. Contains constant anachronisms, crazy old men, dubious spelling and a whole lot of slagging off bipedal mammals with opposable thumbs.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Naturally I do not own any part of Tolkein's world of Middle Earth, least of all Shadowfax. He belongs to himself, and don't you forget it. I also do not own any pop culture references that might spring up. Basically, if you recognise it, I don't own it.**

* * *

Dear diary, 

Jubilation and rejoicing, for today got born.

Am, of course, being sarcastic. About the jubilation, I mean, not the being born; otherwise I wouldn't be starting this diary at all.

The _best_ thing about it was that it was all very quick: one moment was in my Mum's stomach, innocently kicking her every now and again, not doing any harm whatsoever. The next, was evicted! Was getting _squeezed_ and _squished_ and _squashed _and _squooshed _out of her – whoever says birth is worst for the mother clearly does _not_ remember their own part in the proceedings - and dumped on top of yellow stuff. Apparently is called straw. Is dead uncomfortable. And scratchy.

Doesn't taste half bad, though.

Anyway, there was Mum, looking round and over at me. She's really pretty, my Mum, though at that precise moment didn't look too good, and who could blame her: after all she'd just pushed me out from…yuck, _not_ going there. Not again, at any rate, since doubt I would fit.

Apart from mum there were things looking down at me, the sight of which, if only for a moment or two, made me wish that I really could retreat back to the comfort of my old room inside Mum, even if I had to fight my way back between her legs. That's just how bad they are. They're called Men. _Foul fiends!_ Only two legs to walk on, can you believe it? Thus their front limbs are free for doing other things, and thus have got objects called hands at the ends of them so can hold things. What's wrong with holding stuff in your mouth, I'd like to know? You don't know where those hands have _been!_ Catch me being touched by those horrid squishy fingers of theirs?

_Brrrr._

After a bit Men left me and my mum alone and she started licking me off and talking to me. She's _so_ nice, my Mum. Love her _v._ much.

I still sort of miss my old room, though.

Hey. I've just thought of something! Those Men manes, or whatever they call their manes in their own stupid grunts, look just like _straw!_ Straw heads, bwa ha ha _ha!_

…

Give me a break; I'm only about ten minutes old.

* * *

Dear diary, 

This is only the second day of my life, but already things are going like clappers. This morning old chap came into stable - the big wooden thing which we are kept in; at least until I find a way to stick to the walls and climb out one of the windows. Hah! That'll show 'em - and Men came into our stall, took me out and began showing me off to him. Wasn't too bad at first, if you overlook the pawing and poking, but when you still retain the full memory of being squeezed out from your mother's behind you can put up with a _lot._ But then one put his horrible little hands in my mouth, and pulled the lips back so that the old chap could see my teeth.

Eeeyuck.

_Eeeyuck. _

And need I say it again?

_**Eeeyuck.**_

I don't even want to _think _about what he must have been stirring those things in.

Well, a foal can only take so much, so bit down and bit hard. You could tell he didn't like it, because made high pitched noise and pulled horrible hands out of my mouth and shook them a lot.

For some strange reason, something called a martini came to mind right at that point. Obviously delusional from all that milk I drank yesterday. _What has Mum been eating?_

Anyway, inspection seemed to be over, since was pushed back in the stall with Mum. She wasn't best pleased. Started telling me off, saying that if didn't behave in front of the Men then they wouldn't be very nice to me: they'd whip me. Don't know what whipping is, but I do know that it hurts a lot! Don't want to get whipped, but am _not_ going to behave like little slave towards Men.

Sucks for them, then.

* * *

Dear diary, 

Growing fast. Only a week old, and already can walk, trot, canter and gallop! Am faster than all of the other foals already, and faster than most of the adults as well! Mum's v. proud, and says am going to be a wonderful _Mearas_. Not quite sure what that is, but apparently is a really elite type of horse.

_Excellent._

Still haven't found a way to stick to walls, though. _Doh!_

Men are really impressed as well. Know they are, because heard them say so. Can understand what Men say now; really not that difficult, but can't talk to them because are far too stupid to understand us. Well, most are. There are a few of them that can tell what we say, suppose, but are few and far between. That's what Mum says anyway, so is easier to just think that _all_ humans are stupid.

That's not going to be too difficult, judging by the ones that have seen so far.

_Now _I keep thinking about some sort of little fish that gets stuck in your ear. Have decided not to eat straw anymore; obviously the Men are putting something in it to control our brains. _Our brains, I tell you!_

Men are real oddballs. Reason they keep us horses is so that they can ride on us! Really! They can't run v. fast - not surprising, since only have two weak little legs - so guess what? They make _us_ do the running for them! They put odd things on our backs called saddles, and things in our mouths called bridles so that they can direct us, and then they sit on us and make us run! Can you believe nerve of them? I can't.

Am certainly not going to let them put a saddle on _me_, at any rate.

They also call us by names of their own making. They call Mum _Fleetfoot_ – can see why, she's dead fast. Not as fast as me, though! – but for some strange reason they're always calling me _Shadowfax_. No idea why, since am obviously not a shadow, and cannot use fax machine – not that they've been invented yet anyway.

* * *

Dear diary, 

Not a foal any more, am a colt! Get to run all over the plains with the other colts, and we have fun. My best friend's called _Brego_; is called after some king of Men. Tough break! We have shed loads of races, but I _always_ win. Everyone says I look really lovely now, and I must say I _do_ stand out from the crowd: am a spiffy grey colour, while all the others are boring colours like brown or white or black. And am fast and big – bigger than any of the other colts! _Am king of the herd!_

However, _still _can't stick to walls. Have more or less abandoned this dream now. _Curse those spiders!_ What do they have that I don't?

Apart from the ability to find flies tasty, of course. Plus shooting webs from their behinds.

Mum says not to worry about it, since there aren't really many vertical objects to climb around here in any case. She has a point. Rohan _is_ rather flat.

Mostly I run over the plains, but sometimes I come back to _Edoras_, the big place on a hill where all the Men live. Sometimes I see a woman standing in front of the big house on top of the hill – can tell the difference between men (this lot certainly didn't have a whole lot of imagination when it came to naming their species, did they?) and women quite easily, have found out, since if you kick the former between their spindly little legs they tend to cross their eyes and squeak and fall over onto the ground. _So _funny. But I swear to use my knowledge only in the cause of good!

_Shppf_.

Anyway, the woman is called _Éowyn_, is the niece of the old bloke who came into my stable to see me; _he's_ called _Théoden_, is the king. Like Éowyn better than the other Men things since she treats me like proper being, not something to show off, plus she's the only two legged creature in this place that has at least half a brain or even more; but for some reason always wears white. No idea why! She is always nice to the horses, and gives us treats and stuff, but often really severe and gloomy. I can see why: horrible snot _Wormtongue_ has the eye for her. Creepy stooge. He has _dandruff. _He has no _eyebrows! _What kind of mammal has no eyebrows?!Evil, I tell you!

_Yuck._ Even thinking about him makes me want to kick his face in for target practice.

Good thing Éowyn's got her brother, _Éomer_, looking out for her. He may be complete cretin in many ways, but at least he knows enough to make sure Wormtongue keeps those greasy mitts of his off his sister.

_Never trust a man with no eyebrows._

* * *

Dear diary, 

Today the creep came into our paddock, to have a look at us. Or, more precisely, to pick himself a horse that makes him look good when he rides it. Tough luck, Grima, you don't look good on anything, least of all a horse! Seemed interested in me, but certainly wasn't going to let _him _ride me – which, strictly speaking, he's not supposed to do anyway, so was completely in the right! - so when he came up to me, reared up and kicked him in the chest.

Don't worry over the eye-browless freak, diary, didn't kick him _very _hard, worse luck; just enough to knock him over, and give him a shock. Didn't seem quite so keen to ride on me after that, practically scooted out the paddock! Tee hee hee! And it won't stop there: if he comes near me again, will kick him harder – where the sun doesn't shine, unless he doesn't have one of those either. That'll teach him! No one's going to put saddle on _me_, or bridle in my mouth, especially now since I've learned exactly what they're made from.

_Eeeyew. _

All I can say is, is bad enough that Men wear the skins of animals they've offed; they shouldn't have to make other beasts put up with it as well! I mean, can _you_ imagine wearing the hide of a dead cow, let alone having it put in your _mouth?_ Almost enough to put me off food.

Almost being the word, of course.

* * *

Dear diary, 

_Yeesh._

All I can say at this precise moment is, those _poor_ idiot male horses – who are no longer, strictly speaking, male - who didn't have the sense to run away when the Men brought those ropes and knives out.

I swear, here and now, that if any bipedal creature comes near _me _with a knife, I'll bite their grubby little opposable thumbs off.

* * *

Dear diary, 

Mucho excitement up at _Golden Hall_ today, or so I've heard. Some codger came along, babbling stuff about Saruman - wizard who lives nearby; don't know much about him, except for fact that he also seems to have penchant for white - and the shadow in the East, and other such wonderful conversation openers.

Théoden didn't seem too impressed by all this. He told old guy to get lost, preferably as quickly as possible. Personally am not entirely sure if that was exactly the _best_ idea he's ever had. Has he forgotten the age old rule?

_Do _not_ turn old fogies away from your door, for they know where you live and _will_ be back._

I amaze myself with my amounts of useless knowledge sometimes.

Anyway, we're all expecting a visit to the paddock tomorrow; king (_v._ grudgingly) said Gandalf - codger's name, though some of Men say he's called Mithrandir and others the Grey Pilgrim; how many names can someone _have?_ - could borrow horse for journey back to the North.

Well, he's not looking over me. Shall go over the fields, to a nice quiet stream, and relax. The bliss.

* * *

Dear diary, 

You won't believe what I've done. Only gone and got myself a rider, that's what!

Strictly speaking, of course, is not exactly riding me – you could say I'm carrying him. But whatever we're doing, we're going to the North! V. fast, might I add!

Was cropping the grass in the fields, when suddenly _he_ turned up. Knew at once who he was; show me really scruffy grey outfit and the words _Grey Pilgrim_ spring to mind at once, for some _odd _reason.

Note the use of obvious sarcasm.

And he seemed v. interested in little old _me_.

_**Bwa ha ha.**_

Was in the mood for some fun, so let him come quite near, and then skedaddled off a few hundred metres. He came after me quite fast for an old bloke, so ran a few hundred metres more. He still came after me. By this time "Can't you take a hint, mate?" was now the new flavour of the month, so set off at a sprint and soon left him far behind.

Anyway, soon halted at a stream for a drink and snack – running iss hot work, I'll have you know! - but the next thing the bloke is coming up again. Now, by this point am naturally thinking "Who _is_ this weirdo?" (not often you find Men who can run that fast, they prefer to let _us _do it for them) but still wasn't having anyone ride me – so set off again.

He soon catches up with me, though. Didn't know old men could run so fast. So ran faster. But then, he leaps out in front of me! He overtook me! _Me! _

Bully for him.

He comes towards me, and strokes my mane. Of course, was waiting for the chance to kick him where it hurts; but _then_ he said, "Shadowfax, prince of horses, I require you aid in a great purpose. Great haste is needed to return to the Shire, and I need a fast steed to carry me back. Will you perform this task?"

Now I must say, quite like being called prince of horses. But all the same said quietly, not expecting _him _to understand, "No one's riding me, mate."

Then _he _said, calmly, as if he talks straight to us lot all the time instead of at us, as a whole lot of them do, "I'm not expecting to ride you, Shadowfax. I just need you to carry me North. No riding involved, I swear."

I said it before, and I'll say it again: _oooer! _He understood me! He actually heard what I said! Must be because he's a wizard. Well, how could one say no to that? Without looking really mean and stingy and generally un-Mearas-like? So let him climb on back, and we were off!

And best part is, Men back at Edoras – king in particular – will be kicking themselves! I think I like Gandalf already; he loves taking advantage of stupid people.

So here I am now, running North, with wizard on my back. Is quite exciting really, since have never been out of Rohan before! And at least he is not riding me.

Though perhaps saddle might be good thing after all – Gandalf maybe a wizard, but he still has _really_ bony backside.

Good _grief, _that chafes.

* * *

**Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Dear readers, the title of this fiction has changed, as you might have noticed. Eiluj rightfully pointed out to me that there isn't any such thing as a single 'Mearas', with a whole lot of research to back it up, and, therefore I laud Eiluj as being far more thorough than I, and changes have been made to the ****grammar of the story as is necessary.**

**The title had also changed, because I doubt that anyone wants to read 'Memoirs of a Mearh'.**

**However, I am aware that when Gandalf arrived at Rivendell he turned Shadowfax loose to go back to Rohan. This I have altered, for cheap laughs.**

**And really, I don't own any of this.**

* * *

Dear diary,

Still running. Crossed the Isen.

* * *

Dear diary,

Still running.

* * *

Dear diary,

Still running. Who would have thought Middle-Earth was so big? But at least scenery is nice.

* * *

Dear diary,

Still running. Have crossed some ford called Sam Ford. Why anyone would want to call a ford Sam is complete mystery to me. I mean, what about Hoover?

Don't ask me where that came from just now, because I simply don't want to know.

We are now in country called Shire. Everyone here really short, no idea why. Some of them seem to know Gandalf, although some of the things they were shouting out after him weren't very friendly. Gandalf didn't seem to be about to explain, so didn't make any snide comments, though I was about killing myself at that last one.

I mean, _'conehead'_. Honestly.

* * *

Dear diary,

We are in Hobbiton. It is called Hobbiton by the people who live in it – hobbits. Apart from being about as creative as a Rohirric novelist, they are the really small people I was talking about earlier. They really are _v._ short; like kids, really. They certainly don't look like kids in many ways though; for one thing, scruffy though the humans at home may be, I know the mothers would never let their children get their feet into the state these hobbits' feet are in. Covered in hair, would you believe it! And they don't seem to have thought of the fact that it might be nice for them to wear shoes, just in case the sight (or smell) of their feet offends any visitors.

Not that there _are_ any visitors.

Anyway, Gandalf is inside some weird house, which seems to be carved into a hill, talking to some really old hobbit called the Gaffer – funny name, and that's coming from a horse brought up in a country where the letter 'e' appears to have mutated.

I'm standing outside, cropping the grass (and the rosebushes) and listening in.

What?

_What?_ I've carried him all the way across Middle-Earth in five days flat; I should think that gives me some right to snitch on his conversations.

Not that this one made sense; they kept talking about someone called Frodo, and Gaffer's son Sam, and some black riders. What black riders? What on Middle-Earth is going on here? But Gandalf won't tell me anything. Oh, of course, he discusses it freely with some old codger of a hobbit, but he doesn't tell his faithful steed _anything_.

Not that I am his faithful steed.

I mean, I _am_ faithful – fairly – but I'm not his steed.

I'm just carrying him.

* * *

Dear diary,

We have left Hobbiton, and have visited place called Crickhollow, which apparently is where Frodo moved house, taking Sam with him. Was v. surprised to find no one there. At least I was surprised, but Gandalf didn't seem to be. House was broken open, and cloak was lying on the threshold. Gandalf didn't seem v. happy at all. We rode off on trail that led away from the house; Gandalf said it was made by black riders. Who are these black riders? Why will nobody _tell_ me?

Anyway, got to a place called Bree late in the evening. Went straight to inn called the Prancing Pony; I stayed outside, but Gandalf went straight in. Could hear him shouting at someone, even way out in the street. Gandalf may be old, but he's got good vocal cords. He's v. annoyed that this person, Butterbur (the one he was shouting at) didn't deliver some letter to Frodo. Once again the wizard has lost me.

No change there, then.

He calmed down later, though, so that's all right, even if old Butterbur had to go change his trousers after that little temper tantrum.

* * *

Dear diary,

_Really_ freaky night. Was woken by loads of noises and looked out of stables to see black shapes riding down street. Guessed they must be black riders Gandalf was talking about. Are real oddballs: they look like Men, albeit Men in drag gone completely mad and wrong, but keep making weird shrieking noises, plus wearing black cloaks that don't appear to have anything underneath them.

Not a dicky-bird.

Once again, _freaky!_

The horses are no less oddballish. Black, with red eyes – clearly _not_ of Rohan class.

Oops. Gandalf has just come into stable. Looks annoyed. Also looks ready to go. Here we go again.

* * *

Dear diary,

Will I never be able to get decent night's sleep? Running for five days and five nights, then getting woken up by those riders in Bree; running for two more days and a night, and now, just as think I'm _finally_ able to get some rest, Gandalf decides is the perfect time to have some sort of fireworks display. I know I'm one of the Mearas, prince of horses, tireless as the wind, etc, etc; but even the prince of horses has to have a kip now and again, otherwise he collapses.

We're in place called Weathertop - a sort of tower on a hill - and currently under siege. Oh _joy_. Black riders don't seem to like Gandalf much, for some reason, (then again, he's not that keen on them either) so are bent on capturing or simply offing him, and he's equally bent on making sure they don't. Just as well, really. Lucky for us riders don't seem to like fire that much; and Gandalf, I suspect, is something of a pyromaniac at heart, so he's keeping them at bay fairly well. Namely by shooting sparks at them. That's all fine and dandy, but can't he do it a bit more quietly? I'm trying to sleep here!

There goes another lot of fire crackers. _Ooooo_, they've just hit one of the riders right in face - or where his face would be if he _had_ one. Oh, well, looks like I'm not going to get any beauty sleep tonight either.

…Fly my pretties, fly, _fly!_

* * *

Dear diary,

Are going even further North than before. Gandalf trying to draw some of the riders off from Frodo and some chap called Strider who is leading Frodo and his mates to Rivendell. Still have no idea why riders are chasing Frodo, so I've just asked Gandalf. Knowing my luck, he won't tell me anything. Or if he does, it'll be in some sort of riddle so I don't understand it: 'answer me these questions three, ere the other side ye see'.

Don't look at me like that (assuming you _have _eyes, whatever form you take, diary dearest). Some of us got pretty bored in that paddock.

Oh, he has told me something after all! Frodo's got a sort of Ring (no idea why I have to say it with a capital R) that the riders want, so that they can take it back to their master, the Dark Lord Sauron, who is gaining strength in the East. He's the Shadow Gandalf was talking to Théoden about. Also, Saruman joined forces with Sauron, so it would appear Rohan is in for some trouble. So Théoden really should have listened to Gandalf, instead of telling him to get lost.

Hah, I was right! I could _so_ be the next king of Rohan.

Well, I _could_ if I wasn't a horse. _Curse those Men and their opposable thumbs! Curse them!_

"So we have to make sure that the riders don't get hold of Frodo?" I just asked.

Gandalf did that weird thing again. I don't think I've mentioned this before, but sometimes he just stares into the distance, not looking at anything, and speaks as if he's talking to himself. He did it again just now. His words, not mine, and I quote: "If Sauron regains the Ring, he will be able to cover all the lands in a second darkness. He must never be allowed to recover it. If the riders capture Frodo, then they will be able to take the ring back to their master. We must prevent it."

Wish he wouldn't do that. Apart from anything else, is _really_ creepy to have some old guy sitting on your back, talking to himself. Still, at least got the gist of it: _don't let riders get hold of Frodo. _

Easier said than done, though.

* * *

Dear diary,

Gandalf has evidently grown tired of roughing it, and seems to have written Frodo off as a lost cause, so we're off to some sort of ugly house called _Rivendell_.

I hope they do room-service!

* * *

Dear diary,

We have arrived, in _Rivendell!_ Is very nice place, not ugly at all. Lots of trees, and birds, and a v. big house; but best of all lots of _food!_ There's also _reall_y nice stables – one more mile and I _know_ I would have dropped. Not that I'm going to let Gandalf know that, of course.

Lots of Elves here, as well. Strange people, Elves. V. nice and _v._ pretty, but weird. They all look really young, but they all have really old eyes. Plus, the males look a bit poncy. I mean, how _long _do they spend each morning making sure their hair stays straight?

Still, they're decent to the horses, plus they don't make us wear saddles and bridles and stuff if we don't want to. Any race that doesn't do that is all right in my book, even if it's hard to tell the men from the women sometimes. Perhaps I shall conduct my tried and tested method of gender detection again?

Then again, maybe not.

They're not _that_ bad, even if they do have opposable thumbs.

_Curse those opposable thumbs._

Gandalf is v. worried – Frodo and his team haven't turned up yet. Lord Elrond - the chap who runs Rivendell - sent an elf called Glorfindel out several days ago, to look for them – or maybe it was a female elf. With a name like _Glorfindel_, it's pretty hard to tell. Everyone worrying about what's happened to them.

Well, _duh. _Defenceless little hobbits with hairy feet, one scruffy chap and one – dare I say it? – prissy blonde elf vs. nine stonking great big invisible chaps in black.

That hiss.

With swords.

Freakishly large, sharp, pointy swords.

What do they _think _has happened?

* * *

Dear diary,

No one's come back yet. Surprise, surprise. Everyone now v. worried.

On the plus side, food is _v._ good.

* * *

Dear diary,

Glorfindel got back today, along with Frodo's crew and Frodo, in tow. Frodo unconscious, did not look v. well at all. Everyone v. worried – now _there's_ a surprise - and Elrond whisked him off straight away to infirmary.

Didn't have any idea what was going on – again, now _there's_ a surprise - until Asfaloth, the horse Glorfindel had been riding, got turned into paddock along with me. Nice chap, Asfaloth, even if he actually _chooses_ to wear little bells on his reins, reminding me inevitably of that dance the men back home get drunk and do every so often. He filled me in on everything. Frodo got stabbed by those black riders, and started getting v. ill. Hardly surprising. When you get stabbed in the chest, it doesn't exactly tickle.

Then Asfaloth told me he was turning into a wraith, like the riders. _Eeeh_. Sucks to be Frodo.

Then Glorfindel found their little group, and Asfaloth carried Frodo until they got to the ford of Bruienen(Elves have fancy names for everything. Sounds much better than Hoover, at any rate). Then with classic crap timing the riders came along, and Asfaloth legged it and carried Frodo across ford. Rather him than me. Just as riders were crossing ford to get at Frodo, a big wave in river came along and washed them all away. Good.

Unfortunately, Frodo fell off Asfaloth just afterwards in a dead faint. Not so good.

So now we are all waiting with baited, held, tortured and many other types of breath, to see if Frodo recovers. If he does, great. If not, he'll die, or might just go rabid and kill us all.

Focuses the mind, doesn't it?

* * *

Dear diary,

Frodo not any better. Everyone v. worried, just for a change. Hobbits came to visit, with bloke they call Strider. Nice creatures really, hobbits, even if I can smell their feet up here, but all looked v. depressed. Can't blame them; after all, their friend is close to death, or perhaps just close to wigging out and going on a rampage and all that.

Guy Strider is v. mysterious. At least he isn't half-witted, like those dumb blondes back in Rohan. He can't be if he fancies Arwen. She's Elrond's daughter and by Elven standards she's totally hot, even prettier than Éowyn back home. No bipedal male in their right mind would not fancy her, unless he was a eunuch; even I can tell she is extremely sexy, and Strider most definitely knows it. Elrond _not_ pleased that Strider's after his daughter. He's fighting a losing battle there – she fancies him as well, since apparently he's going to be a king (the ultimate turn-on) and he's not that bad looking himself.

Bit grubby, though.

* * *

Dear diary,

As far as I know, Frodo is better. They pulled some bit of knife out of him last night, and he's recovering nicely. Well, wouldn't _you_ if you'd had a chunk of metal pulled out of you? Gandalf is _v._ relieved. They're going to have a big council tomorrow, to decide what to do about this Ring business, with all the free peoples of Middle-Earth represented.

I don't get to go, of course. Then again, horses aren't exactly a free people in that lot's eyes.

Ingrates.

_Curse those opposable thumbs._

* * *

Dear diary,

Got woken up early this morning. A man rode in the gate v. early, and Elrond came to meet him, and he said he was looking for counsel: so, guess what, folks? Elrond invited him to the big council they're having today!

I ask you. I carried Gandalf half across Middle Earth and I'm left out; along comes some man who's even scruffier than Strider and they invite _him!_ _Ingrates, the lot of them! Curse them with the infinite smugness of their opposable thumbs!_

* * *

Dear diary,

From what I've heard, yesterday in that big council of theirs they decided that the Ring must be destroyed.

Supposedly by sending Frodo to Mordor, and getting him to throw the Ring into the fires of some volcano called Mount Doom.

Excuse me while I laugh hysterically.

_Bwa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaa._

Ahem. To _Mordor?_ They _cannot_ be serious. He won't get half way; orcs will catch him and chop him up, and take Ring back to Sauron. What is the deal about this Ring business anyway? Why is it so important?

And why do I have to keep saying it with a capital R?

* * *

Dear diary,

Learned today that Frodo is going to be accompanied to Mordor by a 'Fellowship'. Namely Gandalf, Frodo's three little hobbit friends, an elf and a dwarf – obviously the 'token' species, which means that they will probably die half-way - Boromir, the scruffy chap who came in on the morning of the council, and Aragorn.

Had no idea who Aragorn was until I learnt that Aragorn is Strider's real name – or is it Elessar? Whatever it is, it seems Gandalf isn't the only one with a lot of labels.

It's probably what gets them up on those cold winter mornings.

They set out in seven days, heading for Mordor, and they're going to be accompanied by a beast of burden to carry all the food, and the pipe weed. Just about everyone in the Fellowship smokes, it seems; the elf and that Boromir chap are probably the only ones who aren't going to be stoned on this trip. The world is definitely doomed.

Got chatting to the poor unfortunate they're going to take; a pint-sized pony from Bree, who the hobbits call Bill, but who is actually called Aloysius, as he revealed to me when we were grazing together. Says he doesn't mind what they call him, so long as they feed him well: a wise sentiment.

Think he is a bit odd though, because he actually _wants_ to go with them. When pointed out that he faces possible death or capture, he said "Wherever Sam goes, I must follow!" Which gives you some idea of his frame of mind. Aloysius has grown very fond of said Sam, mainly because he liberated him from the service of some jerk called Bill Ferny. Though why he puts up with the hobbits calling him Bill after said jerk, _I_ don't know. Ah, well, if he wants to go, I won't stop him. It's his funeral.

Anyway, shouldn't worry. They'll never actually go through with it.

* * *

Dear diary,

They're going through with it.

* * *

**Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!**


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